The Tattooed Woman Pt. 59

THE TATTOOED WOMAN - Chapter 59

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 59: "Molon Labe!"

Chulainn shook his head with something of a weary sigh as he watched the dark elves and their erstwhile minions and mercenaries at drill. The pointy-eared wee bastards were a suitably murderous bunch for sure and dressed up in all their finery and mail they certainly put on a pretty show. But they worked about as well together as a hatful of cats, and so busy at posturing and preening were they, that the Sergeants bellowing their commands may as well not have bothered.

The formation, if you could call it that, fell apart - again, as a trio of the dusken pixies set to fighting among themselves - again, and he groaned, "Oh, fuck me. We are so going to die."

Turning to the urchin seated by his side, he passed her a slice of the apple he was eating and grinned, "But at least we won't die hungry, eh?"

It had been many days since the encounter at the inn. The slaughter, he'd not even call it much of a fight, had resulted in significant damage to the structure, and the sudden and unexpected transformation of the cadavers into two armoured behemoths, complete with acidic blood and incendiary bile, had not exactly helped.

But that very afternoon, a veritable horde of workers and the like had descended on the place; mostly dwarves and gnomes, with a couple of dark-elven overseers that they essentially paid no heed to, as they went about their work.

What surprised him, though, was how the dark elves also ignored his presence. It was not that they were entirely oblivious; a few nodded to him and a couple once stopped to stare, as if momentarily confused by what they saw, but then they went about their business again and seemed to forget all about him. It was passing strange.

Doubtless there was magic at work - so, much the same as every other day, he thought.

There was no sign of the original occupants of the inn, nor had the two strange women he had encountered upon his arrival reappeared. Still, he was here now, as were the workers, and it would not do to bring shame on the place by showing poor hospitality.

Lifting up full kegs and sides of cured ham from the basement, he had set them on tables in what was left of the kitchen and made it known for the labourers and the like to take their fill come breakfast and supper.

The dwarves had appreciated it, though the gnomes, ever a strange people, had restricted their drinking to water, drawn fresh and cool from the well.

But as his ma would say, "There's nought as strange as folk."

Not being an indolent sort and easily bored, he had set to and lent a hand where he could. He was not much of a carpenter, and the dwarves wouldn't let him touch their tools or set hammer to metal, but his back was strong enough. So instead, he laboured and spent his time learning dwarven phrases, usually insults and profanity directed at the gnomes, or boasts of sexual prowess aimed towards the dark elves. Indeed, it seemed almost a challenge among the normally dour artisans to try and make one of the pointy-eared pixies blush. But the dark elves were anything but timid, and they gave as good as they got. Indeed, the salacious creatures seemed to relish the teasing, and more often than not it was the dwarves who retreated, stomping off and muttering into their beards as they were chased away by the musical giggling of the faeries.

It was all bloody silly, truth be told, but at least it gave him a laugh.

As the days passed and some semblance of normality was restored, he had expected the sly elves to begin to take notice of his trespassing, but they never did.

That they were slavers was obvious. He saw their chattel in the street often enough and being a foreigner, come unexpected and uninvited, to their lands, he'd thought it would not take them long to round up a few likely lads to come for him. In truth, he should have left this place already, but the scrawny wee thing that had taken up residence alongside him was far too small to journey far in Winter, and so he stayed, for he'd not abandon the lass.

The dark elves, for all their wicked and tricksy reputation, appeared to treat their thralls well enough, but he had no love for chains, and the very idea of the "grateful slave" turned his stomach. Oh, he could make no claim to innocence, for his own folk had no qualms on keeping defeated enemies in bondage or as hostages. Indeed, women, particularly young and healthy specimens, were greatly prized, and among his clan the value of many goods was measured in cumal , or the price of a woman-slave.

Still, it left a taste in his mouth and in his younger years he had left more than a few men to spill their lifeblood or spit their teeth in the dirt for mistreating a wench.

But then, he'd always been a wee bit impetuous he supposed, and for some reason there were even those folk who went so far as to libel him bad tempered. Though, for himself, he didn't think he'd ever wilfully killed a fellow who didn't deserve it, more or less.

Mayhap, if the slavers finally came for him, they'd find out together if the accusation was truly deserved...

Today, he had no idea why the wee ragamuffin had been so interested in coming to watch the training grounds, but insistent she was and he had no heart to refuse. So, shoving a fresh loaf, some cheese, a chunk of salted ham and a couple of winter apples into a poke, along with a filched bottle or two of the fine brown beer they brewed hereabouts, he had hefted his spear casually across his shoulder and sauntered after her towards the training grounds.

Endlessly curious, the little thing had scampered, like some demented ferret, this way and that, darting between the stalls and hawkers, pausing only long enough to gaze so longingly at a display of candied tidbits that he had eventually tossed the seller a silver, and then watched with some amusement as she tore the offered delicacy to bits with such wolfish enthusiasm that her tousled hair was dusted with sherbet and her face comically smeared with honey and sugar by the end, "Keep that up, lass, and it'll be a bath for you when we get home."

She squinted her displeasure at the idea through a mouthful of candy and he snorted, "Oh, I'd have to catch you first, is that it?"

With a nod and a grin, she shot off towards the next wondrous curiosity that had caught her attention, if perhaps only for an instant.

The training grounds were a flat expanse of grass situated just beyond the city walls. Indeed, there were many who had made their way up onto the battlements to view the spectacle, but, like him, there were others who preferred to see things from closer, and it was a fine enough day to take the air after all.

Much of the field was an empty parade ground with room enough for companies to train in spearwork or other drill. But across the way been set up rows of targets at various distances for archery and the like, as well as obstacles and barricades for armoured warriors to exhaust themselves training in siege craft, and he watched as one company made an utter hash of using roughly made ladders to clamber over a wall.

Around the grounds were tracks for horses and chariots to race upon and there were other fields in the near distance where the equine troops could practice their charges and gallops.

He had heard that at one time these grounds would thunder to the sound of wardrums and the ominous footfall of thousands. But where legions had once marched, now only centuries remained.

The weak sun had shone brightly enough through the grey cloud, but not so bright as to fully warm the chill from the air, so he had wrapped the girl in his cloak as he settled himself down to watch the spectacle before them.

Now, like some pale echo of the past, hundreds, if not a thousand and more, men and women once again cluttered the field. All armed and armoured to a fare-thee-well with every manner of military gear imaginable as they rampaged about the open space like a barely organised horde, all shrieking and bellowing as they uttered their fearsome, and entirely pointless, warcries and challenges.

It was pitiful.

To be fair, the archers weren't all bad, and the cavalry could probably hold its own in a pinch. But Gods! The infantry; always the iron core of any fighting formation, was dire, and their shield-wall about as impenetrable as a whore's knickers. Yet, despite their ineptitude, somehow - and Gods knew how, somehow the skirmishers managed to be even worse. He watched with an expression of pained disbelief as upon command their pilums flew in almost every direction but the one intended and winced as one poorly thrown javelin near enough impaled a passing cavalrywoman.

Of course, this provoked yet another brawl, along with myriad insults and inevitable challenges to duels and blood-feuds.

Chuckling, he watched as the rider, a thoroughly fine and shapely-looking wench if perhaps a wee bit slender for his tastes, leapt nimbly from her mount and clouted the offending footman. He fell back into his companion, who, for no fathomable reason Chulainn could discern, randomly punched the man next to him.

Chaos ensued.

He sniffed again, "Aye, we're fucked. Safest place to stand would be right in front of these eejits."

"You think you could do better, human."

The speaker was a woman of striking beauty, tall and regal, with hair of finest gold and clad in a silken stola. Her shawl was of some shimmering material woven in a pattern not unlike shining fishscales, worn low to leave her shoulders daringly bare, and her eyes glittered like sapphires.

As was his habit, he had not been entirely unaware of the comings and goings of those moving about behind him, yet somehow her proximity near enough caught him by surprise and his eyes narrowed, "I must be getting old."

Off to one side, some little distance away, stood a cluster of elven nobility, along with their accompanying entourage, surrounded by a formation of most wary-looking bodyguards, all well-armed and armoured. Some were clearly watching their exchange and he eyed them carefully, noting that these at least had a distinctly more martial demeanour than the inept recruits at play upon the field

He frowned at the woman. When last they met she had been in a different guise and in different garb, but no amount of rough clothing could conceal such features, nor such haughty demeanour, and he heard himself growl, "Not a serving wench today then?"

Eyes gleaming with mischief, her ruby lips parted and the smile she offered him was distinctly toothsome as she casually replied, "Not today."

At his side, the urchin chewed slowly upon her slice of apple - and watched.

Rising, he cast a scornful glance across the field, "Well, I would be hard pressed to do worse than yon rabble."

Her gesture was eloquent, "Show me."

"Huh?"

Raising both her head and her voice, she gestured again, "I would have you make good on your boast, human. Demonstrate for me the skill these untutored ruffians lack, so they might aspire to emulate it."

Scratching his beard, he gave something of a dismissive shrug as he looked away, "I'm a wee bit long in the tooth for such games these days, and I gave up showing off when I was a younger - and prouder, man."

Her eyes narrowed ominously at the refusal, "Perhaps, or perhaps it is that mere braggadocio is all you have left to offer me?"

There was a tug at his leg, and he looked down into the face of the urchin at his feet, eyes wide and hopeful as she gazed up at the man. Once, long ago, he might have dreamed of his son looking up at him with such eyes; but that was a different tale, and he shook his head as if to clear it.

Shalidar spared a flickering glance at the scrawny creature, before lifting her eyes again, "If the distance is overmuch, I can always have them move the target closer. Otherwise, I shall withdraw my challenge and leave you and your pet to whatever it is you..."

He threw the spear.

The suddenness of the movement caught even the Dragon by surprise and it was all she could do not to recoil.

He spun, and with an explosive grunt his arm uncoiled like sprung steel. The spear scorched past her head, so close that it stirred a few stray hairs of her golden tresses. For one disbelieving moment she thought the madman had actually nicked her, and her eyes widened as one hand unconsciously flew to her ear.

But the old warrior was neither so clumsy nor anything like so inept, and the silver point of his spear gleamed in the sunlight like a newly minted coin as it rose into the sky, arcing across the field, before descending to slam unerringly into the target at the furthest end of the range. It hit with a thud of impact that could be heard from where they stood, punching through the thing like an awl. It pierced shield and boss with complete indifference, striking with such force that the entire target explosively collapsed on itself and crumpled like a broken toy.

Something of a silence descended.

He sniffed, "No need for such false kindness. I can reach it well enough from here."

Shalidar's smile was wide and entirely perilous as she gave a small nod, "Oh, you'll do."

A sudden movement surprised him, as from near enough beneath his feet a small and scrawny shape darted forth, scampering with surprising speed and leaving her own trail of chaos as she heedlessly ran through the marching companies, ducking this way and that as she deftly avoided their stamping boots, until she reached the distant butts and targets. His initial spasm of concern for her faded and he felt his lips curling as he watched the determined antics of the tiny creature as she attempted to pull his spear free.

The thing, however, was quite thoroughly embedded into its mark and it wasn't until a pair of soldiers went to her aid that it was finally pulled loose, and even then, it took all three of them to finally pry the wicked barbs free.

With an intense look of stubborn satisfaction upon her face, she began to drag her prize back to him.

Thus distracted, it was a moment before he fully noticed the stirring as the cluster of nobles moved closer, doubtless attracted by the commotion. Not all were dark elves he saw, though more than a few were of that dusken species. At least a couple were of human stock and he eyed them. One was clearly a maid of some sort, while two were richly dressed and both quite striking in their own ways, though one was again a little too young and slender for his tastes, but pretty enough for all that to be sure.

He tilted his head, warily gauging the group, watching where they stood, how they carried themselves, who they stood next to, who stood next to them, and, most importantly, who they all attended and cast their eyes at.

"Right, so they all follow the dark elf in the middle and move as she moves. Meanwhile, the wench with the raven hair seems particularly attentive and is careful to stand just so - slightly behind and to one side. She's doubtless a servant of some kind, but no doubt a favoured one from the richness of her garb. Wears a decent knife too, as all these stab-happy buggers do, but she wears it clumsy, like a novice. Meanwhile, I see no knife on the younger lass, which is an oddity in itself. She seems a little apprehensive and is uncomfortable in that dress she wears, and that threadbare shawl of hers looks as out of place among such finery as the callouses on her hands. Ah, and from the unhappy looks she casts towards that elven lad standing by her side she's not best pleased by his presence. Can't say I blame her; he looks a bit of a fop.

The lumbering half-orc now, if that's what she is, is easy enough. She trails the dark-haired woman like a shadow and watches me as only a bodyguard or sellsword would... Oh, and that sleekit little fucker skulking at the back is warding the younger one from the looks of things, and right warily too. And though she hides it well, she's no bodyguard that's for sure - aye, that's a trained killer if ever I saw one. All of them keep an eye on this tall bint in the middle, so she's obviously in charge - and EVERYONE seems a bit nervous about goldilocks here..."

Shalidar watched him intently, lips curling in a wry grin and he snorted, "Creepy, it's like she's reading the very thoughts in my head."

The woman raised her brows eloquently at that, and pointed a long finger at his chest, "Him."

A dark elf; the tall and regal creature he had already marked, moved forward and her guards moved with her. She wore some kind of chain of office about her neck and he nodded to himself, "Aye, she's in charge to be sure," then he cast an eye at the fair-haired woman before him, taking in her sly and hooded expression, "or thinks she is at least."

"What price this, Lady Shalidar?"

The blue-eyed creature turned her head but slightly, "This one - He's the one we need."

The elf-woman cast her dark gaze, cool and calculating, upon him, her expression revealing little to nothing of the working of her thoughts, save for perhaps a small measure of curiosity, and her voice was measured, "You know this man?"

Saphire eyes twinkling with mischief, the golden-haired beauty turned to her companions with a wicked smirk they knew only too well, "Ohh, we shared quite the breakfast not so very long ago..."

Eyes widening, the younger of the women in this eclectic group drew a breath, "You mean, you and he..." Eyes turned to her, and, clearly embarrassed, her cheeks flushed as she looked away, her voice trailing off, "Well... um, you know..."

The one they had called Shalidar laughed. It was a strange sound, oddly deep for a wench, and yet mirthful. It was enticing, a sound full of both secrets and promises, and he could almost feel his blood heating as her eyes once again met his. Yet, for all that, he could still recall their first meeting, where he had watched as she used those perfect teeth to tear the very throat from one who had thought to threaten her. He suppressed a shudder at the vivid memory. Beautiful she may be, but it was the beauty of the tiger; all bright eyes and brighter fangs, and he found he had little difficulty in quashing any stray thoughts of intimacy with such a fatal creature.

For just a moment, there was the slightest quirk at the corner of her mouth, then she looked away.

Turning, the woman lifted her chin as she regarded her younger companion, her voice carrying the slight note of false reproof as she spoke, "Really, Cassie? He looks virile enough, I suppose, and I have no doubt he would make for an entertaining diversion, but do you think even one as strong as he would survive my embrace? Besides," she sniffed at his rough appearance as she drew herself up, "I could do better."

The dark elf had not allowed the exchange to divert her from her examination of Chulainn and he could almost feel the weight of her eyes upon him as she took in his rough appearance, and the way one hand habitually rested upon the hilt of the oversized dirk he wore at his side. His hair was no longer as red or a wild as it once was, and, like his beard, it was streaked with silver and grey. His face was lined and weathered like old leather and the brigandine armour he wore had seen much hard use. But those icy grey eyes had lost none of their fierceness, and there was no fear in them as he calmly returned her unblinking gaze.

Something of a shiver ran down her spine as she met those eyes and she turned away, "Why?"

"Your pardon?"

She gestured, "Why him? He looks handy enough to be sure, but what particular qualities does he possess that makes him a suitable candidate to lead my forces?"

Shalidar shrugged, "Well, when first we met he decapitated one of my kin right in front of me, so there's that..."

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